


Take the Fall

by yet_intrepid



Series: Hurt/Comfort December [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Low Blood Sugar, Teenchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s pissy and he knows it. He gets like this when he doesn’t eat, which is another reason he’s gotta train. If they get stuck in the woods for three days with nothing but a granola bar, he can’t be mouthing off at Dad. </p><p>“Practice what you might have to do. Then when you get there, you’ve got something to draw on.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> December 5 prompt: disordered eating.

Dean’s stomach growls again.

It’s always like this, and he always hates it. He’s just glad Dad isn’t around to hear it this time. Sam is, though, and he looks up from his homework.

“Come on, man,” he says. “Some crackers aren’t gonna kill you.”

“Shut up,” says Dean. He feels himself going red. “You know what Dad said.”

“Yeah, training, sure.” Sam shuts his book. “Load of crap.”

Dean stiffens. “Look, Sam, just because _you_ don’t care about saving people from monsters—”

But Sam holds up his hands. “Hey,” he says. “That’s not what this is about, okay? It’s got absolutely nothing to do with me not wanting to hunt. I just—I don’t think this is a smart way to do it, that’s all. I think we’ve gotta take care of our bodies if we’re gonna work them this hard. You know?”

“And you don’t think Dad’s got just a little more know-how, here?” Dean’s pissy and he knows it. He gets like this when he doesn’t eat, which is another reason he’s gotta train. If they get stuck in the woods for three days with nothing but a granola bar, he can’t be mouthing off at Dad. “You heard him. Practice what you might have to do. Then when you get there, you’ve got something to draw on.”

“And you’re the worse for wear,” Sam points out. He reaches into a bag for a box of crackers. “Come _on_ , Dean. Dad’s gonna call today, and I don’t wanna tell him you passed out from low blood sugar. Like, I’m pretty sure that doesn’t even qualify as _getting by on as little as you can_. It isn’t getting by.”

Dean wants the crackers. Wants them so damn bad he could rip apart the box. But he feels a little sick to his stomach, too, looking at them.

It’s guilt, he figures.

“Put those away,” he says. “We’re gonna run.”

Sam grumbles, but he changes into shorts and gets his shoes on. They do a couple miles. Dean starts sweating almost right out the door, his heartbeat faster than it should be and his skin all clammy. But he focuses on his breathing, on the pound of his feet against the sidewalk, and he gets through. Gets by. Sam was right, Dad’s gonna call today. Dean needs something decent to report.

When they get back, he gets himself some water but he can hardly drink it. Sam’s watching him. Sam’s worried. Can’t have that. So instead of collapsing on the bed or in front of the TV like he wants, he drops to the floor and starts stretching. Then push-ups. Then sit-ups.

He’s still so hungry; he can’t think about anything else. Never can. One day it’ll come back to bite him.

It’s just weakness, Dean tells himself; it’s just like when you were little and you couldn’t even run a mile. Had to train, had to build up. Same thing here.

So he finishes his set of sit-ups and then he stretches again. Everything’s getting all fuzzy in his head. All he knows is train, train, train. That’ll make it better. More stretching. More push-ups. Stop thinking about food. Stop thinking about water. Stop thinking about sleep.

Then he notices he’s not really seeing anything.

He stops the push-ups, lying flat on the floor. His heart is running double-time. He’s sweat-drenched and he’s so, so cold.

The door creaks open. Oh God, Dean thinks, and he fumbles for his knife, trying to get up. But before he can get further than his knees there’s a hand on his shoulder, and he hears Sam’s voice.

“Dean! Dean, hey, hey. It’s me, all right?”

Dean squints, trying to get things to come back into focus. He sways a little. Damn it, he is not going to fall over.

“Lie down, okay?” says Sam.

Dean lies down on his back. He sucks so much, he thinks; it was only some push-ups. Should’ve been able to do it.

Sam’s moving around, and then his arm is behind Dean’s shoulders, lifting him up partway. A cup is at Dean’s lips.

Water is okay. Gotta have water to train.

Dean sips. It’s not water.

“Went to get you some orange juice,” Sam says, all soothing and quiet. “Good for low blood sugar.”

“Can’t,” Dean mutters.

“Shut up,” says Sam.

Dean drinks the orange juice. It’s the good kind, cold and fresh, and it tastes so good. The room gets clearer again as he drinks, and so do his thoughts. But mostly all he can think is: I was doing it, and then I couldn’t. Guess if I die in the wild one day, I’ll deserve it.

“You ready to sit up?” Sam asks.

Dean sits up. Sam leaves for a second and comes back with a handful of crackers. He hands one to Dean. Doesn’t say anything.

Dean doesn’t say anything either. There’s nothing to say. He can’t deny how weak he is when Sam just found him on the floor.

He eats the cracker. Hates it. Hates himself.

And then his phone rings.

“Let me,” says Sam.

“No,” says Dean. It’s Dad for sure. No way he’s having Sam tell this story, try to explain away his failure.

Dean swallows what’s left of his cracker and stands up, digging his phone out of his pocket with still-shaky fingers. With all this guilt on his shoulders, he’ll feel better if he’s the one to take the fall.


End file.
